Notes From A Broken Heart

"There'll be peace in the valley forme someday There'll be peace in the valley for me. I pray no more sorrow and sadness or trouble will be, There'll be peace in the valley for me." Dear Sister in Sorrow, I recall the lyrics I used to hear Mother sing, early mornings as I awakened.  It took years for me to connect her song with a specific situation, event, or occurrence.  Although Mother never laid claim to the prophetic gift Apostle Paul writes about in the First Book of Corinthians, her song often resounded with a prescience that later produced an "Aha!" from me. Her voice rang with a prayer of preparation to face oncoming travail or distress. That's why I write to you today, dear Sister, albeit concerning a peace you may know now.  I aim to reassure you that we share the Holy Father who promises that "peace which surpasses all understanding will guard our hearts and our minds in Christ Jesus" (Philippians 4:7, ESV). As a Mom who has walk

 "I like your hair," Catherine complimented the young man working the cash register at check-out.  A shy smile accompanied the  "Thank you." "What do you use to get it looking so good," I asked, always searching for the Holy Grail of Black hair products.  It's an oft-repeated question I pose to both genders.  I wasn't born with the "I can handle hair"gene.  In fact, when my daughter Tracey announced that she'd "be doing Coco's and my hair from now on," relief flooded throughout my soul!   As a fledgling young mom, I appreciated the help, if only from a preteen.  I'd never succeeded at doing my own hair, so how could I be expected to know how to do the right thing with theirs? We'd play "Beauty shop" when I could no longer avoid washing, rinsing, and conditioning their hair.  Nor could I distract them with colorful barrettes, twists, or ribbons.  Even at eight years old, Tracey felt compelled to answer t

  I grew up a "Whiner," having stumbled early on the efficacy of the device.  Whining, as I'd respond to Daddy's "What's wrong," became the main tool in a skimpy arsenal of ruses. But no-nonsense (Grand) Mama would shush me with, "Girl, stop complaining! You're walking around with a loaf of bread under each arm and whining that you're hungry!"  Hmm. Mama didn't mince words. As the youngest child of seven, however, I continued practicing the art with varied success. I even tried whining to anyone, unsuspecting adult or acquaintance alike.  How he did it I'll never know, but Sam older by eighteen months usurped my role as"Baby in the family" without ever whining.  You go figure!  I first heard Mother sing, "Count your blessings, name them one by one; count your blessings see what God has one..." but didn't connect the dots between   bread and blessings for years, decades, if truth be told.  Whining worke

  My goddaughter, Zenobiza (not her birth name), regales us with the adventures, misadventures, and mishaps she experiences in Customer Care at a big box store, especially before holidays.  As a customer service representative whose job it is to tend to the needs of a diverse consumer population, she soon realized that while buyers carried varied definitions of "assisting" and "service," they never wavered in parsing their perceived "rights"  as consumers.  Zenobia doesn't know that this common view can be traced back to a 20th century "good old days" retail policy that "the customer is always right!" Customers expect "Zee" to operate as "Jill of all trades, " as in:  "I know I'm in line, but I forgot the cooking oil Get it for me, will you?" "Where's the cereal aisle? It's not in aisle seven where it was the last time! Go find it! "I don't know where my Johnny and Susie are! C